


Sugar and Butter and Flour

by rxcrcfllptrs



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stardew Valley Fusion, Baking, Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 15:37:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20117470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxcrcfllptrs/pseuds/rxcrcfllptrs
Summary: The city boy and the country boy pick blueberries flourishing under the bright skies and make something sweet enough to last the summer.day 3, parkner week 2019:baking, no powers, "dropped my croissant!"





	Sugar and Butter and Flour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MayWilder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayWilder/gifts).

> Title from like, most of Sara Bareilles' songs from the musical "Waitress". I'm dedicating this specifically to May, who basically bullied me into writing this au to life. My brain just ain't wired for the country life, lass! 
> 
> Also, a big thank you to [enzhe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enzhe/pseuds/enzhe) for helping me out with the last part of the fic.
> 
> The recipe I mostly reference is Bon Appetit's [Cherry Cobbler](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0cWAPfKyrSA).

They're fast friends from the moment Harley bumps into this brown-haired boy at Pierre's store. Well, not so much bump into as much as see them struggling to reach for something on the top shelf (several packets of seeds, it looks like) and Harley swooping in and scooping them up with ease. He glances over their lips one time and fastidiously halts every thought process about it until he can say his own name.

"I'm Harley," he spits out after a little while. "I visit the valley every summer, this your first time here?"

"Oh, yeah," stranger replies, nodding. "I'm Peter. My parents finally let me visit my aunt and uncle — Uncle Ben and Aunt May, of the farm a bit west of here — on my own," Peter says with a proud sort of tone despite looking down at the floor.

"Cool," Harley stores the information away, remembering that he himself is holding a couple bags of flour that aren't getting any lighter as they stand there. "We should probably get these checked out, huh?"

"Yep, definitely," Peter says, turning away to find the till. It takes Harley a quick second before his feet follow suit.

It takes Harley another several minutes to realize where (who) his heart is going 'ba-bump, ba-bump' to. Then he grimaces, hefts his bags, and pushes the feelings down like a game of whack-a-mole. _Nope. Not dealing with that right now_.

* * *

It’s summer in Stardew Valley and that means all the flowering blueberry bushes from spring have started bearing fruit. Harley invites Peter to go berry picking, complete with a straw hat and basket to put all their forage in.

“You’re telling me you’ve never gone berry picking before? Ever?” Harley asks, incredulous, as his hand reaches into the brush. Past the unripe green and pink ones and deftly picking off the ones already a dark blue.

Peter pouts, the sight nearly too much for Harley’s poor heart. He covers it up by tossing a few berries in his mouth, a medley of sweet and tart in his mouth. “Well I’m _sor_-ry! The city doesn’t exactly have the most exciting plant life, y’know.”

“Your parents haven’t taken you to a farm for like, strawberry picking?” Harley tilts his head and grins. “Y’know some botanists describe pumpkins as berries. Haven’t picked up your own pumpkin for carving in Halloween, either?”

Peter furrows his brow, confused. “Why would a pumpkin be considered-“ he waves the thought away. “Anyway, no. We’ve never really gone out to get plants for the house. Mom likes those little succulents on her desk, but that’s it.”

Harley huffs, moving on to the neighboring bush when the one they’re rummaging through has given up all its fruit. “That’s a shame, it’s really fun.”

“We’re doing it right now, aren’t we?” Peter points out, picking off a few and tossing them into the basket. “Are you supposed to be eating them before they’re washed?”

“Probably not,” Harley shrugs, popping a few more in his mouth for good measure. “The bushes here have always been a mix of blue, black, and salmonberries. If any of them were bad I’d be dead ten times over before I turned 13.”

He turns his head and manages to tamp down his laughter into a snort as Peter goes into a facial journey of concern, incredulity, irritation, confusion, and then ending the performance with a deep sigh and a shrug. “I’m not even gonna question that.”

“I was a stupid kid,” Harley drawls.

Peter huffs with a small smile. “I can tell,” he draws back up to full height, dusting off his jeans. “Well, I think our basket’s pretty full. Think we should call it?”

Harley hefts it with an ‘oof’ at the weight change, from the feather light straw basket they had early this morning, now passing into midday. “Yep. Any more and I’d have trouble getting it back to the house.”

Peter tilts his head before patting Harley’s shoulder. “Try not to get killed by berries any time soon, okay? I’d be sad and have a grudge on berries forever,” he puts his hand back, nestled in his jean pocket. “First time berry picking was great, I’d hate for it to be the last.”

Harley has his own head tilted, tongue resting on the tip of his canine, unsticks it, then nods. “I’ll try.”

Then the moment breaks when Peter beams, bright and warm like sunshine. “Cool! Let’s get these to your place before your arm falls off.”

* * *

Harley’s cubed up the cold butter, fresh from Peter’s relatives’ farm. He’s also measured out ingredients for the biscuits and blueberry filling in small glass bowls, heavy cream in a glass measuring cup, all surrounding the chopping board like some kind of pasty-related ritual. The water was running to the right of him, Peter washing the blueberries in a colander, idly picking out the leaves as he went through them by the handful.

“So is this a family recipe or something?” Peter asks as Harley dumps in the dry ingredients into a large mixing bowl then whisking them all together, then following it up with the cold butter and his hands grinding the butter pieces into the flour.

Harley hums in thought. “Kind of? I saw the recipe online for cherry cobbler one time, did some changes and incorporated some techniques I learnt from Aunt Jodi, The Queen of Sauce on TV, and a bunch of other places I consult for cooking wizardry,” he works quickly with the pitcher of heavy cream, whisking it in with a fork until it forms a shaggy mass of dough.

“Wow, good thing I’m not the one making it then,” Peter comments with a smile, turning off the water and letting the berries drip dry on the sink, patting his hands dry on the kitchen towel hanging off the cabinet. “Wouldn’t want to mess up the good thing you have going on in here.”

Harley takes one look at Peter, who has a weird look going on, and furrows his brow. “Somehow I don’t believe you.” Peter pouts again, and Harley has to turn away, reaching over for a handful of flour to dust the chopping board before turning out the biscuit dough there.

Then Peter becomes uncharacteristically quiet, and that’s when Harley goes on full alert. In the corner of his eye, Peter’s starting to gather flour in his fist, but Harley stops that in its tracks before it even begins. "I know what you're gonna do," he says without even looking, making Peter freeze in the middle raising his arm. "And Aunt Jodi loves her kitchen almost as much as her kids. Believe me when I say that she will make you scrub that from the tile with a toothbrush, even if you're a guest."

Harley knows he's successful when Peter sighs then lowers his arm in his periphery. "You're no fun."

"Nope," Harley denies, cutting the dough into quarters with the bench scraper. Then he stacks them high and squishes them flat with a rolling pin. "Just faced her wrath enough times as a kid to know better."

"Well, I'm done with the blueberries. Do you need any help with that or can I do something else?"

"Uh," Harley cranes his neck over to the sheet pan hanging off the side of the rack. "Can you line the sheet pan over there with foil? And then put the baking dish we're gonna be using on top" he points at them with a flour-dusted finger, first at the pan, then the drawer where the foil is stored, then the glass baking dish on the dining table.

"Got it!" Peter says, taking all three and getting down to business at the table. Harley shakes his head with a light snort, he's done rolling out the biscuit dough to about a half inch height and now brandishes a knife to divide the rectangle into 40 square-shaped biscuit pieces.

"Aren't biscuits supposed to be round?" Peter comments as Harley puts the chopping board into the fridge to chill.

"I mean, yeah," he replies, shrugging with one shoulder. "But I didn't want to roll out the excess dough, so."

Peter tilts his head, then nodding like he received sage advice. "Smart. Didn't think of it that way."

Harley clicks his tongue while tapping his temple with a finger. "Work smart, not hard."

* * *

The rest of the cobbler comes together almost criminally easy, a reason why Harley keeps coming back to make it in the summer. Harley mixed up the filling, Peter poured it in the pie dish and topped it with the biscuits, then it was butter-brushed and sprinkled with brown sugar. Now it's baking in a 350℉ oven for the next hour.

"For a dish that came together so easily, it takes for_ever_ to bake," Peter whines, chin on the table as he idly plays with the stray fibers coming off the tablecloth.

Harley's in the middle of cleaning up their mess, all the small measuring bowls already set to drip dry. "Well, did you want to eat raw unpuffed biscuit dough? I don't think so."

"I mean!" Peter puts his arms up, exasperated. "I get that, but I'm im_patient_," he pouts, arms crossed like a petulant child. "And it smells really good. Did I tell you that blueberries are my favorite fruit?"

"Interesting," is all Harley says, deigning to catalogue that piece of information in the back of his head. For scientific reasons. Totally. "Any other food preferences? Things you love? Hate? Will die if you touch it?"

And for someone who says they can't cook worth a damn, Peter Parker has some _opinions_ when it comes to food. He isn't allergic to anything, but he is lactose intolerant and has to stay away from most cheeses without Lactaid — milk as an ingredient is okay, though. He hates anything dry and mushy (peas and beans are right out), and anything that has that gross saliva-like consistency makes him gag.

"And another thing!" Peter starts with a raised index finger. "Why do people hate on people who like weird toppings on their pizza?" he waves his arms around almost frantically. "Like, neither of my friends back at home really care but some people really just gotta go and make it some kind of civil war thing," he huffs, arms crossed. "It's not like they sliced up some nearly-extinct bird and used it as a pizza topping. Who cares?"

Harley, entirely amused, is leaning against the kitchen counter with a fond smile on his features. "Is this about pineapple on pizza?"

Peter quiets for a moment, ducking his head before muttering "yes".

Doesn't the sight just make Harley chuckle, really. It's way too cute. "Well you don't have to worry about that with me. I'm not nearly as picky with my food, and I don't think I'm gonna go around finning sharks for soup any time soon."

Peter tilts his head up then, smile small but vibrant. "Thank you. You're good people," he says, and Harley inwardly preens at the compliment.

* * *

The kitchen timer states that only about 20 minutes have passed, the sight making Peter groan and put his head facedown on the table. "This is taking _way too long!_ Who waits over an_ hour_ to eat dessert?"

"Well," Harley starts with a slight drawl, heart hammering at what he's about to say, ever at the mercy of his impulses. "I've been waiting all this time to kiss you and I haven't complained about it yet, have I?"

And that statement makes Peter's brain pause to a screeching halt. His closed eyes snap open, now entirely too aware of the other boy in the kitchen, expectant and taut like a live wire. _Did I just hear what I think he said?_

"Peter?" Harley ventures, tentative.

Some few moments pass before Peter manages to find his voice. "How long?"

Harley purses his lips, pretending to recall when it's been at the tip of his tongue this entire time. "Ever since I bumped into you at the General store. Honest."

Peter takes a deep breath, summons every drop of courage he's ever had in his body, and stands up. He can feel Harley's eyes on him with every step, each one crossing the kitchen taking both an eternity and absolutely no time at all. All too soon, he's in front of Harley, eyes blinking fast and palms starting to tremble as he grips the side of Harley's apron. "Well, I think it's time to stop waiting, hm?"

He slots their lips together, and the taste might as well be the sweetest thing since blueberry cobbler.

* * *

Peter comes back to the homestead with mussed hair and cherry-red lips, a container of blueberry cobbler, and an intense blush that he refuses to explain to anyone who tries to ask.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is also on [tumblr](https://rxcrcfllptrs.tumblr.com/post/186785050234/) if you want to give it some love.


End file.
